Family Remains Through Bottles of Whiskey and Talking Portraits
by HoodedSpellcaster
Summary: Sirius is stuck at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. He's alone, intoxicated, and in need of a good talk, but there is no one to talk with. Or is there? /Set during OotP. Sirius speaks with Regulus' portrait.


Family Remains Through Bottles of Whiskey and Talking Portraits

A/N and warnings: This is for QLFC; we were given free hands this round and I decided to write some brotherly Sirius/Regulus bonding. Set during OotP. Alcohol use, some bad language, mentioned character death. For once I managed to write a fic I actually like! Wohoo! Thanks to Jordi for being a wonderful beta.

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Number 12 Grimmauld Place holds many secrets and even Sirius doesn't know all of them. How could he? He hasn't lived in the house since he was a snot-nosed brat and his memories of the place are a little fuzzy around the edges. He knows there is a secret door behind the bookcase in the living room, a collection of books from the Dark Ages inside a wall in his father's old study room, and probably more cursed items in the hidden basement than Borgin and Burkes have seen in their wildest fantasies.

Sirius sways a little on his chair. He's sitting on the end of the long table and is murmuring parts of _'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables'_ at the whiskey class before downing it on one go. He wonders if Remus will swing by and bring him more alcohol. Molly insists he should stop drinking but Sirius tries his best to dodge her whenever the Order gathers together.

There isn't much more to do in the big empty house anyway, and the Order had made it clear that he has no business outside these walls. Not yet at least. Too dangerous for a wanted criminal, they keep saying.

So he drinks to pass time and tries to keep the newly surfacing memories and the reality outside the walls at bay. There are things he has already forgotten about. Small things, wicked things. _Disgusting_ things. Memories are a pain in the ass, Sirius muses. He doesn't bother to pour himself another glass. He just grabs the bottle and takes a gulp straight from it.

Some of the drink trickles down from the corner of his mouth and he wipes it away. He looks like a mess and he knows it. His hair is matted and greasy and his beard is out of control. But why keep up an appearance if there's no one to impress? He doesn't even remember when he last changed his attire. The stain on his collar is from red wine – the shirt isn't new, that's for sure.

Sirius has one hand supporting his head and the other loosely around the half empty whiskey bottle. He wants to talk with someone – he has even given Harry the mirror so they could converse more often – but right now there is no one available, if he doesn't count Kreacher or his dear old mother's painting. The metaphorical lamp lights up in his head and he puts away the bottle. Maybe there is. He just had forgotten about it.

"Kreacher!" he bellows. "KREACHER!"

Kreacher would rather stay far away from the kitchen when Sirius is there, but he comes anyway – albeit unwillingly – when the wizard calls him. He lingers at the door and looks at the intoxicated man with barely concealed loathing.

"You called?" the house elf drawls. He stares at Sirius suspiciously. Sirius sucks in a breath.

"Go get _it,_ " he demands, sounding surprisingly sober. "From the basement."

Kreacher looks shocked, surprised even, for a second before his usual frown reappears and his eyes narrow. "Mistress has told Kreacher never ever _not_ to–"

"Your Mistress is _dead_ ," Sirius says bluntly and Kreacher flinches. "Go fucking get it. I want to see him. "

Kreacher doesn't like having this conversation with Sirius. Not in the slightest. So he obeys and leaves the room just to pop back couple minutes later. With some difficulties the house elf manages to put the large, flat object on the chair next to Sirius'. Kreacher glances at Sirius for some sort of confirmation.

"What're you staring at?" Sirius snarls before he waves his hand dismissingly. "Just get the fuck out, Kreacher. Go scrub the second floor corridor or something."

Kreacher grumbles something disdainful under his breath and scampers away before Sirius can throw more orders at him. Truth be spoken, if it was really up to Sirius, Kreacher would be launched to the moon or something similar instead of being kept at the house.

But now Sirius' attention is now fully fixated on the object. It's covered by dark green cloth. Satin, Sirius notes as he runs his hand over it. He grabs the cloth and pulls it off, leaving it hanging on the edges of the frame, and reveals the prestige painting beneath. The dust clouds float in the air before slowly settling down on the nearest surfaces.

The painting is only half of the size of Walburga Black's portrait that occupies the long hallway. The dark haired youth in the painting blinks once, then twice, and then finally lets his eyes wander around the room, scrutinizing his surroundings with apparent distaste. He looks just like Sirius remembers.

"Regulus," Sirius says, his voice slurring only a little, and draws the man's attention on him. The man in the portrait tilts his head, his eyes squinting suspiciously.

"Sirius?" Regulus' confusion is evident as he stares at his now considerably older brother in both surprise and shock before his expression sobers down and his eyes narrow once more. "Are you… drunk?"

Sirius lets out a barking laugh. Of course his Reggie would also _act_ just like he remembers. And though Sirius hears enough about his unhealthy drinking habits from Remus and Molly whenever they visit him, he doesn't get mad when Regulus mentions his drunkenness. Not that getting mad at a painting would help his situation anyway.

"Always the voice of reason," Sirius laughs. He empties the bottle with one long sip and wiggles his eyebrows teasingly at his brother.

Regulus rolls his eyes but there is a small smile playing on his lips. "You'll have a hangover tomorrow," he states matter-of-factly but his tone gives away that he is happy to see his brother.

"I'll burn that bridge when I get to it," Sirius hums and fetches the bottle he had hidden – because of Molly snooping around his kitchen – from the cupboard's top shelf behind canned beans.

Regulus raises a brow. "Are you sure you got that saying right?" he asks, frowning disapprovingly when Sirius uncorks the bottle and takes back his usual place at the end of the table.

"Of course I got it right," Sirius snorts, raising the bottle mockingly. "Drink, regret, and repeat. I would offer you a drink but you're barely legal. Cheers!"

"Well, thank you for the observation Mr. States the Obvious," Regulus says. "But since when have you followed the rules? Who died and made you the Queen?" he asks playfully.

"Our parents, actually," Sirius replies in all seriousness. " _My_ roof," he adds with a smirk, " _my_ rules."

Regulus' brows knit together. "You live here."

It's a statement, not a question, but Sirius doesn't need to be told that Regulus is confused. Past-Sirius would be, too.

Sirius takes a gulp. He hadn't chosen to live in this house. Damn, if it was up to him he would stay as far as possible from it. But there he is, in the house of his parents, talking to the portrait of his dead brother. For once he can thank his mother and whoever from the Order had kept their eye on her. She had, after all, been the one who had ordered the portrait in her moment of grief years ago. And then made Kreacher hide it.

"You know," Sirius starts, twirling the liquid in the bottle, "I drink to make other people more interesting. And my life, but that's a minor thing," he adds sarcastically. "But hey! As a wanted man with a very limited social circle I can't really complain."

Regulus crosses his arms in his portrait. He leans on the frame, brows furrowing, but he doesn't question Sirius' words aloud. He has missed decade or two. No wonder some things have changed along the way. Had Sirius eventually joined the Death Eaters and is now hiding from them for reasons untold? Regulus knows that doesn't sound like Sirius but he doesn't dare to ask if that's the case.

Sirius frowns. "I'll hang you on the wall next to our dear old mother if you don't drop that look," Sirius says and points at Regulus with the whiskey bottle. "What'll you say about that, huh?

"What are you?" Regulus laughs haughtily. "Twelve?"

"Yeah, on a scale from one to ten," Sirius says with a slight slur, puffing his chest proudly and earning an eye roll from his brother. "But no, seriously," he continues. "I know that look. You're overthinking something and I can hear whatever wheels are turning in that head of yours. You're dead wrong."

Regulus grins. "I think I'm dead adorable."

Sirius doesn't laugh. He grumbles something, tightening his grip of the bottle and pours himself a glass which he then drains at one lengthy swig. For courage, he assures himself.

"Dead. Yeah, how did you die by the way?" Sirius asks lightly but his face has gone expressionless. "Where's your body?"

Regulus knew that the question was coming sooner or later but he hadn't guessed he would be the one to trigger it this time. He shakes his head and smiles softly at his brother.

"I'm a painting, you ass," Regulus jokes feebly. "I have no knowledge about the location of my body nor how I did, in fact, die." He sighs, suddenly sounding tired. "You should stop drinking, Sirius," he says when Sirius ignores his glass and returns drinking straight from the bottle.

"It's a war out there," Sirius scoffs. "I'm old. I'm tired. I think I'm entitled to."

So the war still rages, Regulus muses with a sad smile. Had his death been in vain? Hadn't Kreacher managed to destroy the Horcrux? He pushes away the urge to call for the house elf and ask about the locket. Sirius sways when he stands up. The crestfallen expression crosses his face and soon there are two empty bottles on the table instead of one. There isn't more to drink. Remus had better bring him more when he comes to visit.

"Sirius."

Sirius turns his eyes at Regulus, moving his hand on the green satin cloth.

"I wish I could fight by your side."

Sirius stiffens and forces back down the sip of whiskey that he'd just swallowed. He quickly tries to compose himself, bring a smile back to his face. Keep his cool and not falter with his words. He doesn't quite succeed.

"I wish for that, too."

The darkness embraces Regulus once more. He doesn't see his brother break apart.

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QLFC Round 13 – Go Wild!

OPTIONAL PROMPTS:

3\. (word) launch

4\. (word) repeat

14\. (quote) 'I drink to make other people more interesting' - Ernest Hemingway


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